


About this map (here we are, here)

by storm_petrel



Category: Goon (2011)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:37:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_petrel/pseuds/storm_petrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xavier La Flamme ruins his life and makes a friend.  Only one of these things is maybe fixable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	About this map (here we are, here)

Morning in Halifax.

There’s something in the air that stinks like— Xavier doesn’t know. Dead things under the snowbanks, maybe.

The AHL is exactly the way he remembers it, except a thousand times worse, because the AHL’s only glamorous when you’re seventeen and stupid. After that, it’s about as sexy as a strip mall strip club. It’s where you go when you’re too green, too old, too slow, too dumb or too big a fuckup to keep a roster spot. The hotels have those fucking crawly bugs, the buses smell like piss.

Xavier hates it about as much as a human being is capable of hating, and possibly more because he’s French and there’s something down in his DNA that cranks up love and hate past eleven.

It’s his first morning in Halifax, and Xavier throws up outside the arena. The booze, or the oxy, or post-concussion symptoms. At this point, he doesn’t give a shit.

Ogilvey’s captain here, and he’s a sad motherfucker. Xavier’s seen guys like that before. Wife gone, life gone, something important switched off inside. He drinks maybe more than Xavier does. The first time Xavier sees him on the phone with his wife, that closed-off, god damned _miserable_ look in his eyes, he’s actually glad he didn’t have anyone, before. Just so he wouldn’t have to find out if she’d have stuck around.

The top d-men are Russian shitkickers, the coach hates his fucking guts, and the goalie’s probably on meth. It’s another fucking day in Paradise.

***

Xavier Laflamme doesn’t remember the hit that destroyed his life.

He remembers five minutes after, watching the arena lights swim overhead like deep-ocean fish in that fucking BBC show, hearing the crowd like a tiny, muffled thing under the clattering, alarm-clock ring in his ears, and thinking _oh tabernacle this is bad._

As it turns out, he was absolutely fucking one-hundred percent correct.

***

He doesn’t remember the seventeen months after that very well either. Unfortunately for him, there’s a shitload of videos on Youtube.

***

Guys try to call him, still, even after he swapped phones three times. Fucking Highlanders management still hand that number out like that shit’s candy. Bergeron still tries, once a month or so, and guy never even played with Xavier, not unless you count back on the pond in L’Ancienne-Lorette, back when he was seven and Bergy was twelve, taller than he was ever going to get. PK, every so often, Ben Pouliot when he’s drunk. Carey Price sends texts. Pictures of his roping gear, new decals on the Zamboni, his truck after the snowstorm. _Here is the snow. Here are my old pads in the snow. Here is an out-of-focus shot of my fucking face_.

Xavier deletes everything. He doesn’t talk to them. Doesn’t talk to _anyone_ , not after the last time. He figured out pretty goddamn fast that the people who hate you aren’t the ones who can fucking take you apart.

***

And then there's fucking _G_ _latt._

Doug Glatt is two hundred twenty pounds of goddamned deadweight who doesn’t fucking know how to knock, shoot a puck or when to quit. He skates like he’s a kid, mouth twisted in concentration, all shit balance and bad ankles. 

God damn if he can’t throw a punch, though.

***

“Oh, you pysanka-shitting brother-fucking nuclear-fallout asswipes, I am going to beat you until you piss purple.” Belchy’s in good form today. Not necessarily in the net, because Oleg’s just fired one off from the blueline right through his five-hole, but verbally speaking, he’s on fire. No one can swear, Xavier thinks, half-admiringly, half-terrified, like a half-Cree Saskatchewan hoser whacked out of his head on Percocet.

Evgeni skates up, grabs Oleg and kisses him noisily on the mouth. “Beautiful, beautiful,” he says, wiping his eyes. “We take that goal out behind middle school, we get it pregnant.” He spins on Doug. “American capitalist pig,” he says. “Come here, I show you how to do that. You take Oleg’s job, you prettier anyway.” Oleg howls something uncomplimentary in Russian, and Doug smiles, eyes pulling all tight at the corners. His form’s looking better, Xavier thinks, almost despite himself, and scowls.

***

Simard puts his head into the boards, whip-crack fast, and Xavier thinks _oh please not again not again contrecrisse not again_.

***

He’s lying in bed that night, and yeah, it’s sad that he’s hit this point in his twenty-two years of existence, that he can recognize and rank concussion symptoms. Compared to last year, this one’s almost fun. Disneyland on ecstasy, practically. Xavier starts to laugh, and yeah, that’s pure fucking lunacy right there. He’s still giggling when he reaches for his phone, because he can’t turn on the lights and he can’t move his neck, but if he dims the screen down to its dullest point, his phone’s not too bad.

And yeah, he must be crazy, board-to-the-head-hat-trick _nuts_ , but he pulls up Youtube, goes scrolling through looking for the hit. There’s tons of minor-league video makes it online these days. Unfortunately.

And there, that’s the rink, all grainy capture on some dick’s camera phone, and there, there’s that fuckhead Simard, pasting him right across the numbers, and there, that’s the sound his fucking head makes when it bounces off the plexiglass.

And that right there is where Xavier checked out, but he blinks, and the video jerks and keeps going, and there. That’s Xavier on the ice, and that’s Doug Glatt smacking two-hundred twenty odd pounds of mass into Simard and beating the everloving _shit_ out of him.

There’s only a quick flicker of a frame where you can see his face, but Glatt—well. He’s yelling something, maybe nothing. He looks, well— He just looks so goddamn _angry_. There’s a longer shot where all you can see is his fists flying, Simard down and not even trying, and there’s a flick, Glatt’s skate twitching out of the way, where the blade was creeping close to Xavier’s head.

Xavier blinks, thumbs his phone off.  The message notifier pings, but he ignores it.

He’s still awake, and it’s late, really late, when the apartment door opens and closes, and there's a big body trying, mostly badly, to move quietly along the brutalized hardwood. A few knocks on his wall, and Doug, his voice quiet, not angry now. “Xavier,” he says. “Are you up?”

Xavier’s fist twitches, like if he didn’t ache so bad, he’d put it to the wall, knuckles touching where Doug’s got his fist on the other side. No real reason. Just a connection, that’s all.

***

There’s a text from Bergeron on his phone. _Hold_ _on_ , it says. Xavier stares at it for half a second. Deletes it.

***

Two weeks later, when light doesn’t make him want to puke and he can do an hour on the bike okay, Xavier wakes up and makes an actual honest-to-fuck _decision_. “All right,” says Xavier. “Wake the fuck up. We’re going out.” Doug blinks up at him, says, “Breakfast?” hopefully, but doesn’t protest when Xavier grabs their gear bags, hustles him out the door. He doesn’t protest in the car, and he doesn’t protest when they’re gearing up, and he doesn’t protest when Xavier laces his skates just to hurry things on a bit. He doesn’t say anything until they hit the ice, and then he says, “I don’t think we have practice today.”

Xavier rolls his eyes. “Yeah, we do. You and me. You out the ice with me, that’s sad. It’s so fucking sad. Now move your feet, show me what you got.”

Doug catches on just as Xavier slugs him in the shoulder, and takes off. He’s so goddamn slow that it makes Xavier, all his coaches from peewee to the majors, and Wayne Gretzky somewhere back in 1988 want to cry. Even when Xavier loops back into range, he can duck Doug, and it’s almost depressingly easily. After five minutes or so, Doug says, almost breathlessly, “How am I supposed to catch you when you jump around like that?”

Xavier spins again, and that, that’s like breathing, like dancing. Something easy, to duck and deke and clear defenders, to chase yourself a long sweet path to the net, nothing but one quick flick between you and the swish of the rope, the blare of the goal horn. Xavier shrugs, because what can he say? This is what he does. “How do you fight?”

“Not put my face where the other guy’s fist is,” says Doug promptly, and Xavier can’t help it. He laughs, ducks around, throws another quick punch and takes off again.

***

Doug can heat up soup and order from the Middle Eastern place on Barrington and Young. Xavier can open beers and run a blender for smoothies. Between the two of them, they’ve got three quarters of the entire hockey diet covered. When Eva shows up, half-bitten smiles and knowing looks, and broils _steaks_ , Xavier never wants her to leave.

***

Winning is good. Winning is a beautiful fucking thing and Xavier had actually kind of forgotten how much he loved it. Better than the oxy or the booze. Better than sex, even, sometimes. Arena ice smell and blue Gatorade and the way the crowd screams. Doug and Oggie grinning, Oleg leaping onto his back, Belchy flying out of the crease like his pads can’t weigh him down. Really, maybe nothing’s better than this.

***

There’s a text from P.K. on his phone. _Drinks w/ pricey wish you were here._

Xavier doesn’t delete it.

***

“My parents won’t talk to me,” says Doug. They’re lying on the couch, and Xavier’s drunk just enough to accept the sudden shift in conversation. Not that they were talking, before. But they gave Doug the good pills, and sometimes they make you talk shit. Doug’s face still looks like he went through the fucking grinder. His tongue keeps poking at the gap in his teeth, like he’s maybe expecting it to have grown back.

“I’m embarrassing,” he says, and his voice is steady, but his eyes are sad. Xavier pets his shoulder a little, because they’re friends, and friends don’t call each other pussies for talking about feelings. Or stomach light, or whatever other weird shit Doug thinks about on a minute-to-minute basis. “My brother is too, I guess. Neither of us turned out the way they thought, and I guess—I don’t know. I haven’t talked to them in months.”

And that’s kind of awful, and it’s not right that Doug’s sad when he won them the game, when he’s on the happy loopy pain pills. And Xavier has a moment where it’s all clear, where he can just kind of see through the whiskey. See Doug like maybe some people see him, big polite Jewish kid, but slow. Beat-up face, sad eyes. Something disappointing.

"Fuck them," Xavier says, suddenly, decisively, because people are _stupid_ , and he is _right_. And yeah, he’s drunk, but this is suddenly so clear. "I'll be your family," he says. And. He means it.

"Thanks, man," says Doug, and yeah, the pills are definitely hitting now, because he smiles up at Xavier, a little dopey, kind of sweet, and Xavier feels a sudden rush of affection, warmer than the whiskey in his chest.

***

And then the season’s tearing down to the wire, and they’re close, so close, and Doug’s mouthy fuck friend is screaming on his webcast about the Highlanders _maybe making the playoffs due mostly to the a-fucking-plus-plus fisticuffs and on-ice leadership of my main fucking man, the only man I’d ever let come inside me, Doug the Thug Glatt and all right maybe that little French piss streak’s okay too, I fucking guess, whatever_.

Doug laughs. “That’s how Ryan says he loves you.”

***

There’s messages on his phone.

Xavier grins. Shoves it back in his pocket.

***

St. John’s, after a hat trick.

It’s late, and Xavier’s been walking all night, hair tucked under his hat and hood up because St. John’s is pretty chill but drunk people do stupid things sometimes. No one could touch him tonight, though. He’s warm right through, no booze, just the fucking righteous glow of _winning_ , and _fuck_ , finally getting it _right_. His phone buzzes again. Another text from Doug. _here is me and eva with69 stiches_

A picture, grainy in the hospital light, Doug smiling, eye swollen shut, Eva sleeping with her head on his shoulder. She looks peaceful. Xavier smiles. Texts back _which one of you got stitches? I cn’t tell_.

It’s late, so late it’s practically morning already. And that's best part about St. John's—so many bars, there are always cabs in the street. Up on the big hill overlooking the harbour, wind coming off the big grey-black ocean, the sky just starting to get light.

They're going to win, now. The certainty's a solid thing, an anticipatory buzz, so close he could reach out and touch it.


End file.
